The Neighbor
by Biku-sensei-sez-meow
Summary: Not long after an interesting new woman moves in to 221C, Sherlock is given a case. An American serial killer has moved to the UK and is giving the consulting detective quite a challenge. Sherlock finds himself enjoying his neighbors company, but is noticing some strange things concerning her. He knows he is feeling something, but what? No one is getting out of this unhurt.


**Hello readers! So, this is the second in my trilogy of "Women-In-Sherlocks-Life." Every woman is different in each story. The first one is called "The Friend" if you're interested. Please let me know if I should continue. This is just the prologue, so it will be slow, but if you want me to continue, it will get better, I promise. The third is "The Client," and will be coming out soon. Enjoy!**

Detective Henry stared down at the body with a passive face, but he was raging on the inside. The tall, American man was growing thin from lack of nutrients and sleep. He and his partner had been working this case for two years now, since day one. The body of the victim was cut in multiple places, each major artery severed with skillful, almost surgical precision. The body was almost completely drained of blood, but there was none at the scene. It was him, definitely. The third kill in a month and it was like all the others. The only difference was that this one wasn't burned. The first victim two years ago was the chiefs daughter. They found her body burnt to a crisp in her house. If not for DNA, they wouldn't have even known it was her. Shortly after that, her father committed suicide.

Henry watched the teams at their work as they rushed around trying to gather what evidence they could from the body.

The detective turned around and headed back to his car.

Jake Peters was a cold, hard, heartless murderer, a serial killer with no pattern, no motive, and who outsmarted them every time. They never knew when he would strike. But someday, Henry vowed to himself, he would catch this killer, and put him down.

* * *

The night was black, dark and silent like a bat. The air was chilled and fragile, summers last breath wafting through the city. No stars came out to greet the body, and no moon dared to show the shadow of the figure running swiftly along the rooftops. A bloody knife dangled loosely in the persons grip, dripping the cooling red liquid through the cold autumn air. They dropped down onto the ground and ran into the road of a small neighborhood. They slowed to a walk.

The figure stopped just underneath a blinking lamp post, it's contours outlined in fading light. The figure was short, but not too short. The body type could not be told for the black trench-coat the person wore, and the hood pulled low over their eyes. They walked along the street, black boots clacking on the pavement. Eyes flashed a brilliant, beautiful color as a car drove by.

"Another kill, another day~!" they sang quietly, smiling. They glanced about and headed for the payphone on the other side of the vacant street. After punching in a few numbers, they put the ringing phone up to their ear and waited. The call was answered on the second ring.

"Yeah, it's Jake. ... Mission success. Too easy. ... Nah, no time. Plus, my lighter wouldn't start. ...Why there? I thought you had operatives there? ... Yeah, whatever. You book me a flight? ... Whatever you say boss. To England I go."

The person, Jake, hung up the phone, shoved their hands in their coat pockets and sighed, continuing down the road towards a bus stop.

"To England I go..."

* * *

_Bored._

The world was so quiet. Well, actually, it was rather noisy with the taxis driving down below and the sound of construction, not to mention the obnoxious ticking coming from the clock on the wall. But to one Sherlock Holmes, this was so very quiet, and peaceful, and worst of all, boring. John was out shopping with his temporary girlfriend. He was taking far too long to get back and Sherlock was really starting to miss him. Taunting John was a rather entertaining pastime. There really was nothing. The tall pale man lay out on the couch in his blue robe and pajamas, his messy dark curls tangled and unkempt, icy eyes staring listlessly into space.

Lestrade hadn't called, John wasn't around, Mycroft was invisible (not that he minded), Moriarty was seemingly inactive (which secretly worried him), and Mrs. Hudson was showing a new tenant around the newly renovated 221C flat. he hadn't met or seen the Jacqueline Corey yet, and he didn't really care.

The clock on the wall, brand: Shropshire. Two seconds behind. John had messed up the tick when he had reset it. Now it constantly battled Sherlocks inner clock. But he had noticed that a month ago...

So what else was there to keep the mind busy? Music, upstairs. An Irish band, but the guest was American judging from her unkempt, plain black luggage and the key-chain in the shape of a blue star with the word "Freedom" engraved in it. The key-chain was on the outside of a case that was heavy and handled delicately by the movers, and when he inspected it, Sherlock deduced that there was a number of firearms inside. So, a patriotic tenant, probably from a family in the government. There was a name on the bags, Peter Corey. Obviously not hers, so a family members. An independent person, but judging by the way the clothes were messily shoved in, making the case bulky, and the furniture in the flat, a young person. She had a flare for the dramatic and had art supplies delivered to the living room. So, young, artistic in many ways, Yes, he had figured that out a week ago as well.

_Boooorrrrrrriiiiiinnngg._

Sherlock barely registered the extra set of footsteps in the neighboring flat. As far as he knew (and he knew all) there was only one person moving in. The third one was heavier, but more controlled than the other two. A male, but trying to be stealthy.

The consulting detective jumped up lightly and headed to the opposite building, grabbing his now clean harpoon from its place over the mantle and readying himself with it. He barely stepped out of his flat when he heard Mrs. Hudson's shriek. He glanced up with bright eyes and hurried upstairs, nearly running into a heavyset man wearing a brown jacket, jeans, and holding a broken blade. The man took one look at Sherlock and his harpoon and turned to run down the hallway towards the fire escape. Mrs. Hudson came running out of the kitchen, her hand clutching at her flower-clad chest. Sherlock gave chase, but he barely got off the stairs when a wooden bat flew around the corner and, with a resounding crack, hit the man in the face (presumably breaking his nose) and he fell back, out cold. Sherlock looked down the hallway in surprise.

The bat was being held by a hand. Sherlocks mind raced as he deduced the person as they came out from behind the wall.

_Around 20. _

_Had training of some kind to build up that strength._

_Sporty, slightly Gothic._

_... What else?_

There was nothing else he could see. She was tall with light skin and a fair face. On her head was a shock of bright blonde hair slightly spiky an falling over her right eye and just brushing her neck. Her eyes were a brilliant blue that he could see from there. Her clothes consisted of a dark long-sleeve shirt that hung around her shoulders. The shirt was held on her by two black straps. The shirt was black with a silver flower on the chest made of loops and with swirling vines. She wore a below-the-thigh black skirt with a grey stripe and white flowers inside the stripe. Underneath were silver stockings with a twisting pattern of black circles going around it, and black stylish boots. She grasped the bat in her left hand, her other she raised to wave at Sherlock.

"Hey there, sorry about the blood. I'll clean that up-" Her eyes caught sight of the harpoon in Sherlocks grip and she blinked, a slow smile spreading on her face.

"Oh. Well," she chuckled, swinging the bat over her shoulder.

"Very good hit." Sherlock complimented with a curious smile. The girl grinned back.

"Thanks, but I wouldn't want to go up against that beauty." She indicated the harpoon, but kept her eyes on the tall man the whole time.

_Flirting, and attempting to intimidate me with the bat. Wonderful._

"Sherlock Holmes. Nice to meet you miss..." He expected a smile, and he got one. He expected her to come closer, and she did. He expected her to offer her hand and possibly say something cute, but she didn't. She walked over to him, wearing that slow smile.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm not an idiot. Really, I'm not. If you don't mean it, don't say it. It's obvious you don't think it's nice to meet me, and I hate it when people are dishonest with me." She walked past him and looked back over her shoulder. Sherlock was automatically interested. She was smart, and forward, and she didn't seem to hate him... yet. He followed her with his eyes and they looked at each other. She grinned.

"I'm Jackie, your new neighbor. It is very nice to meet you."

**So now, how do you like it. Continue? No? Review and tell me how to improve. Meow!**


End file.
